Black Dove or Haunted
by thickets
Summary: AU, Post GoF - The summer after the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Harry goes to stay with Snape; meanwhile, Snape relives his past. Not a slash story, though Chapter IV contains some slash (Snape/Lestrange). NEW: Chapter V uploaded.
1. I

Black-Dove/Haunted Part I

> **Note from the Author**  
This story is an _Alternate Universe_. It stems off from the canon Harry Potter timeline towards the end of _Goblet of Fire_. In this story, Harry does not go home to the Dursley's. It is decided that he would be safer, now that Voldemort has regained his full power, to stay with a powerful wizard, who can protect him, and who would also be the last person Voldemort would think of: Professor Severus Snape. Snape, however has his own problems...and I invite you to assist me in sorting through them.  
I'd like to thank Rhysenn, Manda, newsstand for beta and general encouragement. I'd also like to thank the great and amazing Stephen King for his book _On Writing_. Not that he'll ever get wind of my incredible gratitude...  
Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Scholastic, and now I suppose AOL TimeWarner as well. I have no illusions as to otherwise. The song, "Black-Dove (January)" is by Tori Amos and is copyrighted by her SWORD AND STONE publishing company. The song "Haunted" is by Poe and belongs to her copyright, as well, though I don't know the name. Other songs off of Poe's album, _Haunted_, are used in this story, as well several ideas expressed in it and in _House of Leaves_, a novel written by her brother, Mark Z Danielewski. This story also owes an awful lot to Alice Hoffman's _Practical Magic_, especially the Aunts.  
I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> **Black-Dove/Haunted**  
by [Shanna Seanachai][1]
> 
> _"because cowboy, the snakes, they are my kin."_ Tori Amos, "Black-Dove (January)"
> 
> _"I'm haunted - by the hallways in this tiny room, the echo there, of me and you..."_ Poe, "Haunted"
> 
> **Part I**
> 
> Sometimes if I concentrate hard enough it will all come back. Not clearly, no, memories never come back clearly. They spin, like webs through your mind, like stop motion pictures, flickering rapidly, yellowed with age, startling sometimes in their suddenness. They bring me sorrow and sadness; what else can one feel, after growing up in that big, dark house, where shadows lurked around every corner? And two ghosts, who we called Aunt Jessamine and Aunt Birgitte. And Ananda. Anda and me, very vivid and small. Night and Day, the Aunts called us. Anda and I never laughed at the joke. It wasn't very funny to us.
> 
> When we first came, it was like passing into another world. An entire part of our lives seemed erased; small, inconsequential, everyday things, just gone. It was like they had simply stopped existing: bubble gum, hula hoops, model kits, football; afternoons spent watching Top of the Pops; 45s, transistor radios, mind rotting comic books (as our mother called them), The Monkees, Donovan, Marc Bolan; all those horror movies I loved. I used to drag Anda to the cinema, bribing her with Twizzlers, and we'd sit through double features: The Masque of the Red Death, Village of the Damned, The Birds - Rosemary's Baby, which we had to sneak in to see.
> 
> We left that part of our life forever when we stepped off the train, all the belongings we could bring stuffed in suitcases at our feet. Anda's red hair was twisted into tight braids, and I didn't know if the redness in her eyes was from the headache they were giving her or from crying. I didn't ask. She would have scowled and told me to leave her alone. She'd been in an unapproachable mood since...
> 
> It wasn't as if I didn't hurt as much as she did. I missed our parents just as much! Why did she have to act so...scornful? Like just because I wasn't bawling in front of everyone all the time I didn't feel the same way? I did my crying in private. No need to make a show for everyone.
> 
> Of course, this wasn't exactly what I was thinking then. What nine year old thinks like that? But that is what I remember feeling. Resentment. I resented Anda even though I loved her, and I resented my parents for dying, and I resented the place we were going, because it was unknown.
> 
> We had to get into a little boat to get to the island. I hated traveling on water; it always made me sick. Anda saw me looking a little green and softened a bit, patting my hand. We spoke, a little, in whispers. We wondered what our aunts would be like. We knew nothing about our mother's family; she'd never spoken about them. You could go so far as to say she was close lipped about them. And now, suddenly, to be thrust into this unknown; we were lost. We wanted to be home with our parents and our friends and our pet fish. This sucks, I said, in the clear, pronounced syllables of a nine year old boy saying a forbidden word. It seemed to define our situation perfectly.
> 
> * * *
> 
> "We have to make a decision," Dumbledore said. "That is, where will Harry be spending the summer?"
> 
> It was pretty obvious to everyone that he could not stay at the Dursley's; he needed protection, with Voldemort on the loose. Yes, that point was moot. No one needed it brought up.
> 
> "A place where there are several adult wizards who are capable of defending him; a place that would still be overlooked by Voldemort. A place where he could still have a normal summer, or almost. With...other children." McGonagall pursed her lips. She looked at Dumbledore. Then she turned her head, and her eyes fell on the solemn figure of Severus Snape. She looked at Dumbledore again.
> 
> He got the message. "Severus."
> 
> Snape, who had been lost in his own thoughts (unusual, the others must have noted - but then, he had much to think about - perhaps more than they could even surmise), looked up, blinking. "Headmaster?"
> 
> Dumbledore smiled a little. "How are Jessa and Birgitte, as of late?"
> 
> Snape looked taken aback. "The Aunts are...fine," he murmured. "They never change. Why do you ask?"
> 
> Dumbledore nodded. He'd become quite taken with the idea, all ready. "Do you think they would mind it?"
> 
> "Mind what?" Snape seemed to realize he had missed something.
> 
> "If you brought Harry with you to Argat this summer?"
> 
> Oh. A look of trepidation overcame Snape's features. "Surely there are better hiding places for Potter than Argat Island, Headmaster."
> 
> Dumbledore smiled expansively. "I think it seems quite the solution, Severus - why, don't you?"
> 
> Snape blinked. "Surely, sir, considering my present - position - it would not be wise."
> 
> "How so?"
> 
> Snape narrowed his eyes. "Dumbledore. You must be aware -"
> 
> Dumbledore smiled. "I think this would cause no difficulties in conjunction with the duties I have given you. If you feel at any given time that Potter may be in peril, I can be reached easily and the situation amended. Meanwhile, Harry will be well protected, in obscurity. I'm sure the Aunts would not mind."
> 
> "And," McGonagall chimed in, "wouldn't Niamh be pleased? It must be lonely, up there all the time."
> 
> Snape was silent. It was the worst possible solution. Not that he and the Aunts weren't capable of protecting Potter. As for Niamh...he just didn't like the idea. Still, he was silent.
> 
> "Well, then." Dumbledore looked resolved. "Perhaps you should notify the Aunts through owl post, Severus?" It was his last chance to protest.
> 
> Snape sighed. "Yes, Headmaster."
> 
> * * *
> 
> We spent our time learning to live in that house. It was a house that demanded intensity; everything had to be explored in the same excruciating detail. The Aunts largely ignored us, and so we ignored them. They set no rules, except that we did not wander into their 'work room' and touch things. We didn't care. We had that whole big house to explore, and the rest of the island. We found old books in the parlor that were written in languages we didn't understand. We noticed that you could see out of the glass windows but you could not see in. We spent hours staring at the paintings on the stairs; ancient things, of ancient people we didn't know. On sunny days, we roamed outside, down at the rocky beach or, occasionally, in the village. But we did not often there. The people didn't like us. The adults stared at us and whispered behind their hands at us. The children wouldn't play with us.
> 
> On rainy days (and it rained much there) we stayed in. We often spent time in the attic. It was on one of these days that Anda made her interesting discovery.
> 
> It was books Anda found, old school books. But we were never taught subjects like this at school. We pored over them, hardly understanding what we reading. We didn't really care about that. We cared about the name printed in the cover: Deirdre Argat, our mother. Written in a careful child's hand, and underneath it was written: Ravenclaw, Third Year. Or, Ravenclaw, Fifth Year. It varied.
> 
> After careful consideration, we gathered some of the most intriguing of these books in our arms and trooped downstairs to confront the terrible Aunts. They were in their work room, and we had to knock.
> 
> It's Severus and Ananda, we said. We want to ask you some questions. Can we come in please?
> 
> They let us in, shooting out warnings to touch nothing around us and be quick. 
> 
> Anda held up a book. We found these in the attic, she said. They were our mother's, weren't they?
> 
> The Aunts were silent for a moment. Jessamine took the book from her hand and looked through it. A small smile stretched across her mouth. It was an odd expression on her.
> 
> How old are you two? she asked. Almost ten years old, are you?
> 
> We nodded. We turned ten on September 1st. We were twins.
> 
> Aunt Jessamine turned to Aunt Birgitte. A year, she said to her. I'm not even entirely sure if they'll get a letter, with their Muggle father and all, but if they do, we've only a year to teach them.
> 
> Anda and I surveyed all these goings on with annoyed curiosity. We hated to be talked over. Like...like children!
> 
> Could you please tell us what this is all about? Anda asked.
> 
> And they did.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _ Dear Aunts, I just needed to tell you that when I come home in June I won't be alone. Dumbledore's instructed me to bring Harry Potter with me. So we'll be doing baby-sitting all summer. I will be away much, as you can guess, on business for Dumbledore, so I suppose you two will have to put up with him. Tell Niamh. Perhaps she will keep him out of your way. By the way, has Anda contacted you lately? I haven't heard from her for weeks. She's probably moving again._
> 
> Severus sighed and leaned his head against his hand. He hated the summer. He hated going back 'home'. Anda had gotten the right idea. As soon as she graduated she took off. Never came back again. Did he blame her? No. Sometimes she frustrated him, though. She could at least stay in one place for more than a few months. What was wrong with her?
> 
> Of course he realized he would probably never understand her. The Aunts had aptly named them Night and Day. He could laugh at that now, although Anda probably still wouldn't. It was a sign for the worse for him, he supposed. Anda had told him he should leave. Get out of that rotting house, she told him. Get away from those two old bitches or you'll end up just like them, Severus. And then, years later: You act so much like those two, it frightens me, Severus. What happened to you? She looked so sad. And he'd been so angry! At least I have a permanent job. At least I'm not running around the world like I'm afraid, like I'm being chased. By the Aunts. By this house.
> 
> And she said, maybe you are running, Severus, and you're just afraid to admit it.
> 
> He and Anda didn't get on well anymore.
> 
> He sighed, and finished the letter (he hated writing letters - he could never write what he truly meant to say). He was not looking forward to this summer at all. He dreaded it. Lately he'd had many nightmares - nightmares he hadn't had in years, not since he was a child. Circles had grown under his eyes and he was forgetting things. Forgetting. It was very quiet right now, at this time of day, and empty, and it was all right to do a little remembering, instead. If he closed his eyes hard enough he could see it all. He could remember, if he tried hard enough.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Remember working in the afternoons with Aunt Jessa? Hazy summer afternoons, out from school for these months, but my education didn't stop then. The Aunts made us tackle books, the biggest, and watch them in the work room. Mixing and measuring and experimenting, Aunt Birgitte, what happens if I put this in? Don't do that! You'll burn the whole house down. Anda making faces behind their backs. The Aunts showed us a lot of things, but they didn't show us everything. Sometimes we would sneak down to peak through crack under the door. Learned a lot that way. Anda hated them. What they did to that bird, remember? Anda didn't eat meat again after she saw that. Well, the Aunts didn't practice black magic, at least. They just did some more...unconventional things. For money. They didn't have any other way to get it. We must have been a burden to them...how relieved they must have been when I got my first job, while I was still in school. No more hexes in exchange for gold rings or watches. Those people in the village, really, those Muggles. Snubbed their noses at us when we walked down the street but there they came, scratching at our back door when they wanted something done. Make him fall in love with me. Don't let my wife find out I cheated on her. Help me find this, I lost it. Do you have anything that will bring down his fever? 
> 
> What hypocrites. 
> 
> Anda told me she thought Aunt Jessa had taken a shine to me. It's because you're in Slytherin, like she was, she told me. Also you're good in Potions. Maybe she was right. Jessa used to call me her black-dove, her perfect misfit. I don't know if you would call that affection. If you do, it is a pathetic sort of affection, and the only kind the Aunts were able to give, I think. And maybe all I can give. Maybe Anda is right. Maybe I have become just like them. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> _to be continued..._

   [1]: mailto=



	2. II

Black-Dove/Haunted Part II

> **Black-Dove/Haunted**  
by [Shanna Seanachai][1]
> 
> _"because cowboy, the snakes, they are my kin."_ Tori Amos, "Black-Dove (January)"
> 
> _"I'm haunted - by the hallways in this tiny room, the echo there, of me and you..."_ Poe, "Haunted"
> 
> **Part II**
> 
> It was warm and damp on the last day of school, a thunderstorm threatening. There was the buzz of children in the hallway, echoes of footsteps, as they ran around in between bouts of packing. Professor Severus Snape sat in his own small room, staring at the two empty suitcases on his bed. They were not the same suitcases he and Anda had dragged with them to the Aunts' that summer many years ago. He didn't know what had happened to those suitcases; they had been made of old brown leather and they had belonged to his parents. They had been the only suitcases they had been able to find in the house before they left. They had smelled like his mother's perfume. 
> 
> He should have kept track of them. 
> 
> There was a new letter from Anda in the post today. Her hurried hand rushed across the page, as though her words to him were an afterthought, quickly ended in parentheses at the end of her day. It was all very perfunctory. She was in Venice. Italy, honestly, Anda had been all over the world, and Severus had never been anywhere. But then, Anda had a spirit he had never possessed; a willingness to stick out her neck, to ignore risk. He'd always been too withdrawn. Never mind. There was work to be done. 
> 
> Packing; slowly filing away his life into one carefully contained space. It always made him feel slightly dizzy; that was how he had felt as he'd gotten ready to leave for Argat Island for the first time, sixteen years ago. It had been raining that day, too; it had been raining the whole damn week, starting on the night of the accident. 
> 
> It was a Saturday, and they had been madly happy because they could stay up until ten o'clock (but not a moment later! their mother told Moira, before she and Dad left). He and Anda had been sitting in the kitchen, eating sandwiches for dinner, while Moira, who was their mother's American friend, was teaching them how to play bouree, Louisiana poker. Led Zeppelin's 'Dazed and Confused' was spinning on the record player - one of Moira's albums. The phone rang. Moira answered it, and right as Severus was taking a drink of his Coke, she screamed, and he almost choked. 
> 
> Enough of this. It got him sidetracked. He closed the lid of the suitcase and buckled it. Time was slipping through his fingers, and all he could do was remember stupid inconsequentialities from the past. Like the bustle of people in the house that night, and Anda crying into Moira's shoulder. He'd just sat there at the kitchen counter, staring at the linoleum, ignoring everyone who spoke to them. He'd fallen asleep eventually, and someone had carried him up to his bedroom. 
> 
> Forget it. He put the letter from Anda in a side pocket of the suitcase, and there was a sudden roll of thunder outside. He looked out the window. It was beginning to rain, finally. There were tracks of water sliding down the window; the sky was blank and white and emotionless, as it had been then.Yes, morning breaking, and he'd been laying on his bed, right near the window, watching the pitiful drops of rain on the window. Anda had crept into his room and climbed up on his bed next to him. Rain. It's like the whole world is crying, she'd said. He'd nodded. 
> 
> Then why aren't you? she'd asked. 
> 
> He wondered that himself. Why aren't I? 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> There was a feeling of heaviness, a type of foreboding in his stomach. Harry sighed, and let his trunk down with a thud; then he rested Hedwig's cage atop of it. Everything was in order. He was all ready to go. What a miserable thing. 
> 
> He saw Snape every day for two-thirds of the year. Still, there were many degrees between their lives; and Harry wanted it to stay that way. He didn't want to know Snape, and he didn't want Snape to know him. He didn't want to live with Snape and any of his relatives, who were surely just as vile as he was. He didn't want to have some feeling of debt - it made him uneasy. It was an intrusion of sorts; a dread-filled intrusion, and he was sure Snape would make the Dursleys seem like angels in comparison to him. He would make it his personal business, most likely. 
> 
> Now Harry looked up as Snape held out the Portkey - a smooth glass bottle, empty and uncorked. Dumbledore hadn't told Harry much; he had only said that he was going to stay with Snape and his family for the summer, on a little island called Argat, of the coast of Ireland. 
> 
> "Go ahead," Snape said. "Don't waste time, we have to get going." 
> 
> Harry held out one hand and gripped the Portkey. Snape looked just as angry to have him along as Harry did; he knew this was going to be just an amazing summer. Sure. He grimaced, and then they were gone. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> When we were seventeen, and we had both graduated, Anda decided she was going to leave. She didn't see fit to tell the Aunts this - they'd only make things complicated, she told me. So on a shady June day a few weeks after we had come home from Hogwarts, I helped her pack. 
> 
> My whole life has been packing. Packing for myself, packing for my loved ones; watching one place recede behind me as I leave, or watching someone recede down the road as they leave me. It's left me tired, tired with the knowledge that nothing is stable or transitory. 
> 
> I carried her suitcases for her out of the house (the Aunts were in their workroom - they never knew a thing was happening) down the path to the gate, and then we settled on the road to the village. 
> 
> You could just apparate, you know, I said to her. It's easier than traveling the Muggle way. 
> 
> She shook her head. You have to know where you're going when you apparate, she told me. And I don't know where I'm going. I'm just going to go where the road and the wind take me... 
> 
> You'll write, won't you? 
> 
> She laughed. Of course, Severus. And you'll write to me. That's what owl post is for, after all - we aren't held down by addresses. 
> 
> I nodded. Of course, just as she said. I wasn't losing Anda. Don't be ridiculous. 
> 
> I hate it when people say 'of course' to me. It makes me feel stupid. 
> 
> We got to the docks, and Anda paid a fishermen with some Muggle money. I could feel everyone's eyes on my back. Anda was wearing Muggle clothes, and she looked like a Muggle, laughing and joking with the man on the boat. But I was still wearing wizard robes. Muggles disgusted me. Everything about Muggles disgusted me. I could never understand how Anda acted so easily around them, after the way they treated us on the island. But, then, she wasn't a Slytherin - she was a Ravenclaw. We were different. 
> 
> I said good bye to her that day and I didn't see her face to face again. I got piles of letters from her, from all over the world, but she did not come back. I don't think she will ever come back. I think she will stay as far from Argat Island as possible. She once told me she made a point to never even step on the soil of the British Isles again. Too many bad memories. Too many ghosts. I never left. 
> 
> I am entombed here, I wrote to her once. I'm never getting out. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> The first thing Harry was aware of, after the nauseous feel of traveling wore off, was the crashing of breakers on the shore; then the smell of the ocean itself, a salty, whiskery smell, carried on the warm breeze that hit him in the face. He squinted, reaching up to push his windblown bangs away from his face, and looked around. 
> 
> Snape had already let go the Portkey and turned away, staring up the hill behind the rocky beach, where a large house loomed. Harry let his trunk go from his deathgrip on the handle and peered at the house with him; it was dark and unfriendly looking to him, but considerably more shabby looking then he would have thought. 
> 
> "Get your things, Potter," Snape said to him. He himself began to walk up the hill, not once looking behind himself at Harry. Harry sighed and grabbed his trunk again, beginning to lug it up the hill after Snape; his other hand gripped Hedwig's cage. The owl did not look too happy, either with the afteraffects of the Portkey or with their present location, Harry did not know. He felt much the same way, himself, though. 
> 
> When he finally reached the summit (Harry, by this time, the recipient of many bruises and scratches courtesy of his bulky trunk), Snape had already entered the house. Harry scowled. He had the lost feel of the completely unwanted; he didn't want to go into the house alone - couldn't Snape, for once, have been a little more understanding? Harry didn't like this any more than him! 
> 
> He had just gathered up enough of his courage to enter the house when the door opened and someone stepped out. 
> 
> It was not Snape, certainly, although she did possess the man's long, straight black hair, dark eyes and pale complexion. He estimated her age to be about nine or ten; she had thick eyelashes and a small, round mouth that was set into a solemn line. She walked down the steps and, without a word, took Hedwig's cage from him and began to walk back up the steps. Harry hastened after her. 
> 
> "Uh, er, hello," he said, heaving the trunk up onto the porch. 
> 
> She began to open the door; its huge brass knob was larger than her hand. "I'm Niamh Snape. My father told me to...show you around." Her tiny voice was silky smooth, like Snape's; but Harry reckoned it somehow suited her well, and did not cause the same kind of unease Snape's did. 
> 
> "Your father?" 
> 
> She nodded, and gestured for him to step into the house. "Severus Snape. Your professor. I'm his daughter." 
> 
> Harry concentrated on getting the trunk into the house, hiding his surprise. Daughter! He pushed it into the hallway and against the hallway, panting a little, and watched her avidly as she followed him and shut the door, still carrying Hedwig's cage carefully in one hand. 
> 
> "I - I wasn't aware he had a daughter. Or was married, for that matter." He hadn't even really thought of that last possibility until it came out of his mouth. 
> 
> Niamh's mouth quirked a little. "He's not married." 
> 
> "Oh." Harry decided that the floor in this house was very interesting, and opted to stare at it and keep his mouth shut from now on. 
> 
> "Your room is in the attic. Second door on the left. Mine is across the hall. We keep the owls in a shed behind the house. I'll show it to you after dinner." She swept out, much as her father would have, taking Hedwig with her. Harry wanted to stop her. He wanted to keep Hedwig with him; he needed a friend in this big, lonely place. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> The house, which had always brought out the deepest, worst despair in me, was even lonelier without Anda around. It had never occurred to me before that she had been my only friend. But she was, both in school and on the island; without her I was lost. I tried to tie up the ends of my mile-long summer, but a nagging voice kept getting at me from deep in my head. It was saying, why bother? What do you have to look forward to? There's no more school; Anda is gone; your life has pretty much reached its end. And that was exactly the way I felt, like I had lived out everything worthwhile in my seventeen years, and what lay ahead was a black, blank void. I muddled my way through the days, my mouth dragged down into a perpetual grimace from the pain of my depression. 
> 
> I reached a low point in my existance that summer that has only been touched again once more in my life. It was an effort to get up in the morning, an effort to dress, an effort to eat. As a matter of fact, many days I didn't even try - I went for long periods of time wearing the same clothes, eating and drinking very little, sometimes staying in bed most of the day. Too much effort - hell, it sometimes seemed too much of an effort to breath. It always took the Aunts awhile to notice anything, but eventually their attention was drawn to my behavior. Jessa, who had always considered me her 'protege', was the one who approached me. 
> 
> I've owled some of my friends at the Ministry, she told me one morning as I sat at the kitchen table, trudging my way through breakfast. I've set up an appointment for you in August to interview as an assistant in the Potions department. Won't that be...fun? 
> 
> You could tell she was uncomfortable with her attempt at sounding cheerful. 
> 
> Her smile looked like a crack in a china cup. I shrugged my shoulders at her false gaiety and made my mouth a bald line. She went away after awhile, disappointed. 
> 
> Part of me rejoiced at this turn of events. An assistant position at the Ministry was not that momentous; but it meant getting out of that house, didn't it? 
> 
> Still another part of me glowered at Jessa and Birgitte; what right had they to interfere with my life? It was mine to waste, wasn't it? They'd spent all their lives as recluses, doing nothing, why couldn't I? They probably were just annoyed at my presence. They wanted to get rid of me. 
> 
> This thought made me so angry that I went upstairs, got washed and dressed and went outside. I had been in so long that the sun hurt my eyes, the air seemed to wither my lungs. I walked down to the beach, my legs feeling like jelly by the end of the walk. It was low tide, and half of the rocky beach was dry and gray; the other half was stained almost black by now-absent water. There was no one there but a few sea birds. 
> 
> No, there was someone else there. 
> 
> She was crouched down, not too far off to my right, on one of the large, flat rocks. Bent over, looking in the water, her long, wavy brown hair seeming almost golden in the summer sun. She'd been so still I had at first not noticed her. 
> 
> I could tell, even from this far off, that she was a Muggle; she wore their clothes, ridiculous brand-name blue jeans, with a brown and white striped silky blouse rolled up at the sleeves. She was barefoot; her brown leather sandals were parked in neat attention at the base of the rock. I used to wear clothes like that, when I was a child. I remembered all their names and the way they felt on my skin, the comforting, confining feel of trousers. 
> 
> I should have just left; that's what my mind was telling me to do. My feet, however, had decided on a different course of action, and I approached her, silently. She did not know I was there until I spoke. 
> 
> Are you looking for something? 
> 
> She jumped, and her head came up, her hair flying. I - she said. She took me in; I was suddenly painfully aware of my wizard robes. They seemed so foolish all of a sudden, along with all of my pretensions. I wished I was wearing jeans and a regular shirt, just like her; young and Muggle and carefree. 
> 
> I thought perhaps she would try to leave, that she'd be frightened by my odd appearance and want to get away; just another freak, a product of the strange times, most likely on drugs. It almost made me laugh. How far removed from the truth! 
> 
> But she didn't leave. She smiled at me, her eyes squinting in the sun, one hand going up to shade her eyes. Mussels, she said. 
> 
> Mussels? 
> 
> Yeah, she said. You know, they're a type of clam, or whatever. My grandfather likes to eat them. Her accent was thick but educated; she wasn't from the village, she was from the mainland, Dublin or Galway or another big city. Product of a public education, no doubt, and probably on her way to some Muggle university to learn all their great classical literature. My mind strained for names I'd almost forgotten. Shakespeare. Rosetti. Shelley. Marlowe. I'd never read them; but I remembered them lining my mother's bookshelves. A great lover of Muggles and all their trappings, my mother had been. She'd even married one, hadn't she, completely leaving behind the Aunts and their claustrophobic world? Traitor. Lucky bitch. I looked down at the girl on the rock, and for a second her hair turned red and I saw her - Deirdre, my mother. Then I blinked and the mirage was gone. 
> 
> The girl stood up. I'm Muireen, she said, offering a hand. I'm here visiting my grandfather. I haven't seen you in the village. What's your name? 
> 
> You haven't seen me in the village because I don't live there, I said, forcing myself to refuse her hand. My name is Severus. I mumbled it; my name sounded so strange and decayed beside her own, a flowing of syllables, free like the wind, like the waves of the sea. I wanted to say it and see how it rolled off my tongue. I bit down on the side of my mouth to keep myself from opening it. 
> 
> Where do you live then? she asked. Her hand did not lower. 
> 
> Up on the hill...I said vaguely, not wanting to really say - but she knew where I meant, anyway. There was only one house up on the hill, and no person could stay in the village for more than a day without knowing about it. I could see the recognition in her eyes, in the way her forehead wrinkled up in the shape of remembering. I wondered what stories the villagers made up about my Aunts these days. Doubtless many horrible ones, guaranteed to scare her away before another word left my mouth. 
> 
> But she did not move. She just looked at me, and finally she said: Aren't you going to shake my hand? 
> 
> It surprised me, without a doubt. I reached up and took her hand; my own appendage felt dull and death-laden but hers was alive and warm. She pumped it up and down vigorously. Want to help me look? she asked. 
> 
> For mussels? I asked, taking my hand back and curling it up against my stomach, trying to keep the startling warmth of her on my skin as long as possible. 
> 
> Of course, she said, and gestured over to the water. She had a tin bucket and a little metal pocket knife over there; the bucket was about a quarter-ways filled with dark, oblong shapes - the mussels. They hide under the overhang of the rock, she explained, sitting down. And once you do find them, you have to pry them off; it's a little tough. 
> 
> I stood there for a second, letting the strange feelings wash over me. Behind me was the house, and all of my anger and loneliness and resentment; and here was this girl, smiling and tanned and talking about, of all things, mussels! 
> 
> Sure, I said, and sat down next to her. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> _to be continued..._

   [1]: mailto=



	3. III

Black-Dove/Haunted Part III

> **Black-Dove/Haunted**  
by [Shanna Seanachai][1]
> 
> _"because cowboy, the snakes, they are my kin."_ Tori Amos, "Black-Dove (January)"
> 
> _"I'm haunted - by the hallways in this tiny room, the echo there, of me and you..."_ Poe, "Haunted"
> 
> **Part III**
> 
> Two thin trickles of rain slid down the window; Severus Snape watched them track their way down to the wooden frame. The first light of morning, cool and distant, appeared on the horizon. He had sat here, at his desk, all night. He couldn't sleep - this bedroom was not his own. It was bigger and farther away from the rest of the house, being situated on the western side, which was mainly empty; he'd moved into it when he'd first come back. He'd wanted this room because he thought his old bedroom to be too full of secrets, memories, that he did not wish to conjure up. But now he had a yearning for that room, to remember what he'd been, that strange, naive boy. He wanted to go back and feel the walls, lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling, like he used to, for hours on end, remembering each crack and grain in the wood. 
> 
> But he couldn't go back to that room. It was occupied. Two floors above him, in the attic, three doors down from the landing, Harry Potter slept in it, accompanied by whatever ghosts of Severus Snape's childhood might care to visit him. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Morning rang dull but deafening in Harry's ears. Head buried as deep into his pillow as possible, he listened. 
> 
> The house seemed absolutely silent; outside, the rain pelted down, beating out a stiff rat-tat against the glass roof of the greenhouse in the back garden. He listened harder, focusing all his power into that one sense, pushing his way into corners of the house not known to him and surely not wise to explore (or so he imagined). There. Someone was walking across a room downstairs. Harry lifted his head and searched out his glasses on the bedside table, fumbling them onto his face, nearly taking out an eye in his sleepiness. The room came into focus; it was bare and utterly unremarkable, but Harry liked it. It was large enough, and it was private as well. He smiled. On Privet Drive he had always had one Dursley or another barging in on him; and at Hogwarts he shared a dormitory with several other boys. But he had been at Argat Island for a week now, and no one had ventured into his room once, except Niamh, and she always knocked. 
> 
> Privacy was a wonderful thing. 
> 
> The big clock on the wall near the door said it was six o'clock; so he'd woken early. Turning his gaze to the ceiling, he wondered what each person in the house was doing at that moment, or where they were. It made him slightly nervous, to think of Professor Snape skulking about somewhere in this house; but he was becoming more relaxed here. He hadn't seen Snape once since the day they'd arrived, although he gathered the Potions Master was still somewhere on the premises, thanks to Niamh's occasional comments of "Father told me..." or "Father asked me to..." to the Aunts. 
> 
> The Aunts. Now that had been something of a peculiar experience. He'd met them the morning after his arrival, had bumped into one, actually, as she exited the greenhouse, causing her to drop her bag. He'd been terrified out of his mind, expecting a Snape-like "POTTER!" or such in response; but all Birgitte had done was take her things back when he'd handed them to her, give him a quick but embarrassingly thorough look-over, and said, "Ah. So you're him? I was expecting you to be taller," before she tramped off back to the house, leaving him stunned and bewildered but ultimately relieved. Jessamine had taken him aside an hour later, and insisted on giving him an incomplete tour ("Even I don't know every room, boy; this place is a bit of a mystery,") of the house, with some rather interesting and obviously colored facts about some of the objects contained therein. ("That's all rubbish," Niamh had confirmed for him when he'd asked her later, "Aunt Jessa just likes to put on airs.") 
> 
> As for Niamh...she was something else, entirely. Aside from a few physical characteristics, she really didn't resemble her father at all. She was a bit eccentric; he couldn't blame her, having grown up around the Aunts. She was also sharp, almost shockingly so. She'd infuriate Hermione, Harry was sure. She had a certain sort of sarcasm that was not as malicious nor as constant as her father's, but was nonetheless absolutely on target every time. And furthermore, after getting around a thin veil of "I don't think Father would appreciate...", she had a keen sense of adventure. 
> 
> All in all, she was thoroughly enjoyable. 
> 
> In a half an hour, he'd get dressed, and slip across the hall to see if she was awake. He still didn't have quite the courage to go about the house alone. He couldn't even imagine what he'd do if he ran into... 
> 
> Just then, something caught his eye. 
> 
> He raised himself up on his elbows and peered up at the ceiling. Right there, on the side of a beam, he could see something dark against the wood. Balancing himself precariously, he stood on the bed. His finger traced out the jaggedly carved words: 
> 
> _ "S S 1978 NOLITE TE BASTARDES CARBORUNDORUM"_
> 
> * * * 
> 
> I knew - somewhere, in my heart of hearts - that what I was doing wrong; but somehow, it just didn't matter to me anymore. That was why, when I got that letter from Alan Lestrange, I consented to meet him and discuss...my future. 
> 
> I was lost and unsure and I thought Voldemort and his followers to just be an easy way out, a solution to my problems, which was of course a predictable and juvenile notion. I leaped on it and wrung it out for all its worth. I didn't realize it had been a dry belief from the first until the night I killed someone. 
> 
> And that, you see, is what separated me from the rest of them, gave me the ability to turn away and change my life. To commit yourself to something like that, you need motivation. And I never had any to begin with. 
> 
> I didn't really think I would get as deep into it as I did. I thought that I would just be on the peripheral...that it would be a game of sorts, giving me a chance to get away from the Aunts, my general uselessness, my impending doom as some Ministry hack... If I seemed busy, I could convince them to cancel that August appointment, I imagined. And that, you must admit, is an extremely weak and childish motivation. 
> 
> It was easy to get wrapped up in it. I already hated Muggles. Why not wish them all dead? What had they ever done for me, except leave me, just like my father, just like my mother, who might as well have been a Muggle...the same as my sister. The same as Muireen. 
> 
> Oh, yes, she left, all right. She had to get back to Enniskillen immediately, she told me, that day on the docks. Didn't I know what was going on in Northern Ireland? Didn't I know about the Troubles? 
> 
> So she went off to some war, and I went off to some other. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Argat Island was a small island, and the majority of it was taken up by the village. Harry could see it from the front porch, over the trees; the houses were brightly colored. If he stretched his sight, he could see the misty docks in the distance, and the white dots of boats. 
> 
> He'd asked Niamh to take him down there on more than one occasion, but she wouldn't. 
> 
> "It's a rotten place, and they don't like our kind there," she told him. 
> 
> "You mean, witches and wizards?" 
> 
> "Of course, what else would I mean?" They were sitting on the bluffs right now; thirty or so feet below them, the ocean crashed and boomed. 
> 
> "But they wouldn't know. How would they know?" Harry picked up a stone and dropped it over the edge. It bounced off one of the rocks and splashed into the water. 
> 
> "They'd know." Abruptly she stood up. "Come on, let's get back to the house. I'm hungry." 
> 
> He followed her, deciding to shut up about the village for now; he could see by the determined set of her chin that she wasn't going to budge. She was so bloody stubborn. 
> 
> "Hey!" 
> 
> The sudden, unfamiliar voice distracted him; he looked up just in time to keep himself from walking right in Niamh, who had stopped in her tracks. They were almost at the house, just about to bisect the beach path that Harry had originally arrived on. Standing there, looking as comfortable as if she owned the place, was a woman with short red hair and black eyes. 
> 
> "Who -" Niamh started. 
> 
> "Hey, kid. Don't you recognize me?" She beamed. "You'd think my bloody brother would have enough familial respect to show you a picture once in awhile." 
> 
> "Aunt Ananda?" Niamh took a faltering step forward. 
> 
> "That's right. My goodness, look at you. You look just like Severus at that age." She turned around, scanning the surrounding area. "Where's the Aunts? Buried somewhere in the house? Should we send out a search party?" 
> 
> "They're - they're -" 
> 
> "They're around back, I think," Harry said. "At least, that's where we last saw them." 
> 
> Ananda's head turned around so fast he thought he heard it snap. Her eyes bored down on him with a gaze Harry knew well from his time in Potions Class. 
> 
> "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" He started to say something but she laughed. "I'm sure Severus must just be loving this. Come on, let's go see if we can dig up one of the Aunts." She began to make her way up to the house, turning back once to look again at Harry. "You know, I thought you'd be taller." 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> My memories of those months with Alan and the rest of them - Crabbe, Goyle, Rosier, and more that I've forgotten and never want to think of again - are distorted, misty, unformed. So many people, so many places, so many... I was someone else. I didn't have to think about the things I didn't want to, and I liked, loved it. What I was doing - talking, planning, getting drunk, meeting all sorts of strange and unusual people - was not what Death Eaters really did. It was like kindergarten. They were taking me on the rounds. They didn't let me really see what was going on, but they alluded to it, laughed about it; and I laughed along with them. I didn't take it seriously. 
> 
> I have two very distinct memories of that time. The first one is when I was given the Dark Mark. We were in London. I believe it was fall - I remember leaves covering the ground, crinkling as we walked over them. We, being myself, Alan, his girlfriend Mary, and some squat grinning guy who had a voice like a chattering little bird. We'd had drinks at Alan's place beforehand, and I felt like I was walking on air. We arrived presently at a tenement house that had black-out curtains over all the windows. Alan muttered something as he opened the door, and we stepped inside, into a room that looked much larger than the house had seemed on the outside. I thought it was just because of the alcohol. But it did definitely look much nicer inside than you'd think the inside of a tenement would look. It gave me pause for thought, but it wasn't a very long pause. 
> 
> Alan left the others there in that room and then he led me up some stairs and down some corridors until I was very confused and disoriented and bit annoyed as well. Finally he stopped at a door and he knocked and said, I'm here with the virgin, which made me sputter rather foolishly. I sure as hell wasn't a virgin. Not since four months before, at least. 
> 
> I took one look inside the room and was silent. I was, in fact, absolutely still, until Alan pulled me in after him. He got down on his hands and knees and I went down with him. Following his example, I laid my forehead against the floorboards and something burbled up in my mind, a memory of a television program I had watched as a little kid about Muslims and how there were five points touching the ground as they prayed or something like that. Then He - Voldemort, of course - started speaking and I didn't think of anything. 
> 
> The next thing I knew, Alan was pulling me back up and telling me to roll up my sleeve and put out my arm. I did as he said, staring at the floor. There were a few moments of silence, and He said, 
> 
> _ Look at me._
> 
> I did. He smiled and I felt dizzy. Then He reached out and took my arm in His hand, and there was a burning so intense it was cold. It went right down to the bone; I felt as though my arm were melting. Did I do something wrong? I thought. Are they going to kill me? My heart wanted to beat itself right out of my chest but my pain and fear stifled it. 
> 
> He let go, and Alan grabbed me by the shoulders, which was good, because I thought I might fall. I hugged my arm to my chest, afraid to look at it. 
> 
> You did great, Alan said to me as we left the house, most people pass out. 
> 
> I did great, I repeated dumbly. I squeezed my arm, which I still hadn't removed from my chest. What happened? 
> 
> Alan sighed. You got the Dark Mark, of course, he said, and pulled my arm away to show me. The mark was blacker than anything I'd ever seen before, almost like the black lava rock that is really solid fire. I touched it, half expecting it to burn me. I felt nothing but a slight tingling. 
> 
> You're one of us for real now, Alan said. You're taken care of for life. 
> 
> * * * 
> 
> _ to be continued..._

   [1]: mailto=



	4. IV

**Black-Dove/Haunted**  
by shanna seanachai

_"because cowboy, the snakes, they are my kin."_ Tori Amos, "Black-Dove (January)"

_"I'm haunted - by the hallways in this tiny room, the echo there, of me and you..."_ Poe, "Haunted"

**Part IV**

Severus hadn't fallen asleep until that morning. In the late afternoon he woke with the intense feeling that someone was staring at him. 

"Hey, sleepyhead," a familiar voice said. "I know you're awake." 

He opened his eyes and saw a ghost. 

"What are you doing here?" he mumbled, wondering if maybe he was dreaming. 

"Is that any way to greet your long-lost sister?" Anda asked. She was seated on his desk - she'd never had much respect for personal space - and although she was the same age as himself, thirty-five, she looked seventeen still, just as she had been when he last saw her, so many years ago. Except... 

"You cut your hair." 

She raised an eyebrow. "Observant is your middle name." 

"No, it's not. It's Michael." He sat up, rubbing his eyes. This really wasn't a dream. "You know that." 

She laughed. "You never were at your best first thing in the morning...or afternoon, is it?" She glanced at her watch. 

"I didn't sleep last night." He looked at her, and shook his head. "But really, why are you here?" 

"I came to visit. I can't see my brother and my little niece and my two lovely Aunts without raising suspicions?" 

"Ah. How impossibly rude of me. Of course that's the case." He got up and walked to his closet. He needed to do something, or else he might go over there and wring her neck. His anger towards her surprised him. "Never mind the fact that I haven't seen you for almost twenty years, that you said you'd never come back, and didn't, not even when I got put in Azkaban, or when your 'little niece' was born, or when her mother died...but now you turn up. To visit." 

Anda was silent. 

He turned around, exasperated. "Could you get out of here, please? I need to get dressed." 

"I'm sorry," she whispered. 

He sighed. "Honestly...Anda." 

"I'll be downstairs in the kitchen." She slipped out, closing the door behind her. He stared at it for awhile, amazed at how she could turn his whole life upside down in just one stroke. It was as if it was her bloody talent. 

*** * ***

Yes, I killed someone. I pointed my wand at him and said, Avada Kedavra, the words rolling off my tongue, so heavy and black I thought I might choke on them. I watched as he crumpled to the ground. Saw the way his eyes stared up at me, glassy and dead as a doll's. Then I staggered away, ripping off my mask, and vomited into a gutter. 

Alan found me sitting there on the curb a few feet away from the body, still shaking and sick. He took me by the arm and led me away, through the crowd of cavorting Death Eaters, past the small group of Muggles they were tormenting - I can still see their faces now, looking at me, begging to be let free. 

Put your mask back on, Alan said to me. Someone will see you! He started to lift it up to my face. 

No, no, I moaned. I need to breath. I can't breath. 

What's wrong with you? 

I don't know. 

He took me to his flat, told me to wash myself up and gave me some clothes to change into. Afterwards, he sat me down in the parlor and gave me a glass of Scotch. I drank it down like water. He poured me another. 

Feeling a little better? he asked when I had finished the second glass and was well into a third. 

Yes - no. I looked at the glass in my hand as if I didn't quite know what it was and swallowed the last of it. I can't tell. I feel...numb. 

Alan sighed, leaning back against the couch. He looked at me in such a strange way that I should have realized right then that something was up. But I was in shock from what I'd seen and done, and well on my way to drunkenness. 

What you need, Alan said, is a shock to the system. 

A what? 

Something to wake you up. 

I just want to go to sleep, I mumbled. 

Not just yet, Severus, he said. He'd somehow gravitated closer to me as he spoke, and now our legs were touching. 

We're alike, you and I, he told me. 

We are? 

Yes. He rested a hand on my thigh. We're outsiders. That's why I wrote you. I knew you for what you were the very moment I saw you. 

When was that? I asked. My voice was as hesitant as a ghost's. I couldn't move; rooted to the spot, I watched his hand travel up my thigh. I felt as though I was being tugged along by a very gentle but rapid current. 

You were a Third Year, and I was a Seventh, he said. Another boy had just punched you in the face. You knocked him over and then a professor came along. Everyone said that you had started it. No one cared to see the truth. It was the other boy. 

Yes, yes, it had been - amazing that he had seen that, that he had known! I could remember it with as much anger and wounded pride as if it had just happened. Sirius Black. Of course. I grimaced. 

But you see, the point is, you fought back, Alan continued. His arm was around my shoulders, his other hand resting now against my hip. His mouth was near my ear, and his voice sounded warm and wet to me. You fought back, he said, even though everyone else was against you. 

Yes, I said. A small surge of vindication filled me. 

That's a hard thing to do. 

Yes. 

He turned my face toward him. Our faces were very close. I swallowed, and it felt as though something was blocking my throat. Alan - I started. 

Shh...don't, he said. Very close. 

Feeling my heart speed up, I blurted out the first inane thing that came to mind - What about Mary? 

Mary's kind of like a floor model in a store, Severus, he answered. She's all for show. 

Alan, I don't...I can't do this. 

No one will know, Severus. And no one will care. 

I stopped. 

I told you, we're outsiders. No one cares what we do. 

No one no one no one no one no...it echoed in my mind, and that's when he kissed me. It was a just a small kiss. Barely anything at all. Kind of silly, really. So I let it happen. 

_

...sometimes...I'm terrified my heart...

_

He was right. No one would care. They hated me anyway. He kissed me all over and then I let him lay me down on the couch and do what he wanted, which wasn't much anyway, just his hands, and his mouth, all over, and it was so strange it was ridiculous, but nice enough to make me think that maybe I wanted it too... 

_ ...of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants..._

It was raining outside. Raining. Raining, why was it *always* raining? The lights on the wall looked liquid. I thought I would die. I let it happen. 

_ ...the way it stops..._

I closed my eyes and pretended Alan was someone else, a girl...Muireen. I moaned, electrified. My head fell back. I let her go, I let her go...oh no, oh no... 

_ ...and starts._

See. It wasn't that bad, he whispered to me a little while later. Did you like it? 

I didn't answer. After a few minutes of waiting, he put his head down and fell asleep. 

** * * ***

Ananda was an enigma. She dressed like a Muggle; she smoked; she swore like a seaman. She made them pancakes for lunch, and French-braided Niamh's hair, and told them stories about the Annual Bull Run in Spain, which she had watched, but never participated in. ("It's just a stupid way to prove you're a man, with the added bonus of possibly being gored in the side.") The best thing about her was that you could ask her anything, and she would always answer you. 

"If you're Professor Snape's twin, why don't you look anything like him?" Harry asked her. 

Ananda smiled and lit herself a cigarette. "That's the way it is in this family. There's always one light child and one dark child. But we all have the eyes..." 

"Thank God we all don't have the nose," Niamh said, and slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. It was the first time Harry had ever heard her say anything about her father without the utmost respect. 

"Hey!" Ananda said, laughing. "Lay off the nose. Our father had the nose." 

"Was he nice?" Niamh asked, wistfully. 

"Dad? Yeah, he was nice. Very intelligent, too. Even Severus will admit to that. Though he's apt to add 'for a Muggle'." 

"Father never speaks about him," Niamh said glumly. 

"Muggle?" Harry asked, surprised. 

"Oh, yes," Ananda said. "Severus and I are 'tainted', as the Aunts told us when we first arrived." She tilted her head back, smiling in a far off sort of way. "We had no idea what they meant. We were ten years old. Your age, Niamh." She looked at her cigarette and realized it was ready to burn down to the filter, and stubbed it out. "Our parents had just died." 

It was very quiet. Niamh looked out the window, fingers toying with the end of her braid. Ananda lit herself another cigarette. 

That was when Professor Snape came down the stairs. 

Harry froze. Snape did not even glance at him. He stared at Ananda, then turned his gaze on his daughter. He frowned, and then he went outside. 

There was a pause, and Ananda exhaled a long gust of cigarette smoke and stood up. "Pardon me," she said. "I do believe it's time for a little brother to sister chat." 

** * * ***

Life is a maze. You never know how many turns you'll make before you get to the end, or how many dead ends you'll run into. Although in my experience, you run into a lot. 

After Alan fell asleep, I gradually returned from whatever place I'd hidden myself in, shaking and scared. I lay there, looking at him, but I wasn't really seeing him. I was seeing that dead man on the ground again. Everything was mixed up in my mind - death, love, hate, sorrow, madness. 

Oh, god, I thought. What am I doing here? What have I done? 

I got up, taking care not disturb Alan too much, and turned on the taps in the sink. For awhile I just watched the water run down the drain, and then I stuck my hands under the cold spray and began to scrub at them. They felt sticky and wrong, no matter how much I washed them. 

Alan stirred on the couch. 

I turned around, wide-eyed, and watched his sleeping form in fear. But he didn't wake up. 

I turned off the water and dried my hands, which still felt very dirty to me, on my robe. Out of the corner of my eye I could see through the open door to Alan's study, and within it, his desk. I glanced once more at him and saw that he was still asleep. Then I walked into his study. 

The only thing that was running through my mind was that what I had done that night, and what they had been doing all along, was insane, and that I had to get to the bottom of it. I had to find an answer, I had to find out...why. As ridiculous as it might seem, I still believed then that there had to be a reason, an explanation, for everything. I began to look through his desk, taking out folders, boxes, searching through everything. I found sets of keys and spare change and old photographs. I found letters the content of which disgusted me; it was obvious I wasn't the only boy or girl Alan had 'loved'. 

Then, wedged and folded inside a small wooden box, I discovered a frail, creased piece of paper. It was a list. I saw a lot of people's names on it. Some of them were crossed out, and others had notes next to them. Some I knew, others I didn't, but it was clear to me what this list was for. It certainly wasn't a list of guests for a party, believe me. 

And that's when I realized that this was as close to an answer as I would ever get. That the reason, if you could call it a reason, was nothing more than - hate. Just pure, inexhaustible hate, the kind that breeds in the minds of the unhinged, the unbalanced, like mold growing dark, damp places. 

I'm not like that, I told myself. I'm not, no, I can't be. I know I'm not! 

I made a decision. Finding a blank piece of paper and something to write with, I began to copy out the list of names, leaving out those crossed out - it was too late for them, anyway. The last names I copied down were James Potter and Lily Evans. 

Then I put the desk back together, piece by piece, securing that terrible list back in its box, and went back out into the front room. Alan was still asleep. His lips were turned upwards just a little, and his eyes moved back and forth under his eyelids, involved in their own weird, singular sights. The sun was just beginning to rise; the light that came into the room hurt my eyes. It was a good pain, though. The light of truth. 

I found my wand on the floor by the door. The last thing I had cast with it had been Avada Kedavra. 

I could kill with it again, I thought to myself. Alan would never know he was breathing his last breath. He'd die in his sleep. Sweetly, mercifully, undeservingly so. 

For a second I thought I would do it. For a second I envisioned his filthy hands on me. Then I exhaled and recalled to myself what hate did to you. 

You're lucky, you bastard, I whispered, and then I apparated away. 

** * * ***

"You've got an awful lot of nerve." 

"To do what, Severus?" She stared at him, defiant, that damned cigarette perched in her hand. 

"To come back. To waltz in here like you just left yesterday." Severus pointed at the house, at the door he'd just passed through, at the kitchen where his daughter and Harry Potter sat. "To sit there, talking to my daughter, filling her head with your nonsense - !" 

"For God's sake, Severus!" She threw the cigarette down on the ground and stamped it out violently. Her face was almost as red as her hair. "I said that I was sorry!" 

"Sorry isn't enough. Did you really thing it was? That one word would make up for almost twenty years, for everything?" 

She was silent, staring at him. Then she looked away. "What else is there to say?" 

He sighed and leaned against the side of the house. What else was there? A very good question. If sorry wasn't enough, what was? 

"Why did you come back?" he asked her again. "Seriously this time, Anda, all jokes aside." 

She looked at him again, not saying anything; but for a second she seemed an open book to him. 

"It's Harry Potter, isn't it." His hands turned to fists. 

She blinked, sputtered. "No! Of course not! My God, where did you get such an idea?" 

"How did you know he was here?" 

"I didn't!" 

"Oh, please. You finally decide to make your miraculous return to Argat Island the same summer the great, " his voice turned sour and sarcastic, "incredible Harry Potter comes here." 

"God, don't tell me you're still stuck on that old gripe -" 

"But it's just to see your niece, of course. She wasn't important enough for you to wrench yourself away from your life for all ten years of her life but..." He stopped and scowled even deeper. "Which Aunt was it? Which one told you?" 

"Neither! I didn't know until I saw him, Severus. I'm telling you the truth." 

"Fine." He pointed a finger at her. "But you had better watch yourself around Niamh. I won't tolerate you filling her head up with your nonsense." He turned around and went back into the house. 

Anda stood in his wake, her mouth slack. 

"Fuck," she muttered, and lit herself another cigarette. 

** * * ***

I'd been a spy for almost three years when the Potters were killed and Voldemort disappeared, causing my whole world to, once again, turn upside down. 

It was Dumbledore's idea that I become a spy, that I stay in the Death Eaters's ranks and become his "most important crack in the armor of the enemy", as he called it. He showed me ways to trick them, intricate illusions that were almost impossible to penetrate. I worked my way up the ranks. 

It was the first time I'd ever been an important anything. The idea made me shake, made the blood pump in my veins. It made me scared. I was bound to screw it up. 

I can't rightly remember the exact events of the night of James and Lily's death; it was insane, a mixture of rumors and fear and excitement and horror and...I was with a group of Death Eaters that whole night, holed up in someone's flat, where we waited, terse and excited, for news as it came in. By early morning it was out. I don't know who delivered notice of Voldemort's demise, but one minute things were normal and then there was an uproar, and I couldn't hear a word anyone was saying. 

What's going on? What is it? I kept asking, only to be answered by gibberish. 

Once I heard what had happened, I set out to see Dumbledore. Nobody noticed. They were too frightened and confused. People were coming and going, screaming that it wasn't true, worrying that they should rush home to hide any incriminating evidence, running in to confirm the rumors they'd heard on the street. 

I apparated home to Argat Island. The house was entirely silent; the Aunts were probably sleeping, unaware that the most powerful, evil wizard in centuries had fallen during the night. I found some Floo Powder in the cupboard. When I got to Hogwarts, though, Dumbledore had already departed. I was told to go directly to Godric's Hollow. 

I arrived there just as morning was beginning to fade. Dumbledore was nowhere to be found. There were, however, plenty of Aurors in the area. 

My work had been extremely secret. 

Extremely. 

By noontime, I was in Azkaban. 

*** * ***


	5. V

**A Note from the Author**

Haven't seen me in awhile, have you? Sorry. College is hard. Anyway, this chapter is old, but I never published it outside of the mailing lists. Now I finally bring it to you. Will a new follow-up magically appear? That remains to be seen. I won't raise any hopes.  
This chapter contains lyrics from the Beatles' song "Blackbird". I have no idea who that belongs to, but it certainly is not me.

**Black-Dove/Haunted**  
by shanna seanachai

_"because cowboy, the snakes, they are my kin."_ Tori Amos, "Black-Dove (January)"

_"I'm haunted - by the hallways in this tiny room, the echo there, of me and you..."_ Poe, "Haunted"

**Part V**

He knew he'd been too hard on her. His anger had surged up in him uncontrollably, as it often did, and he'd spouted flames, feeling justified and guilt-free. Now he sat here, brooding and aching - for her. For his twin. 

It was a familiar ache, one which he'd lived with for years. He'd learned to ignore it, to stuff it aside. Now that Ananda had returned, its throb became apparent again. God, how he'd missed her - his opposite, his other half. Those long ago days when they were so close they could nearly read each other's minds. Severus could remember back when the curve of her hand fit perfectly with his; they'd held hands often as children. 

Then they'd grown up; gone off to school, separated more and more with each coming year. Their differences, once complementary, became a chasm between them, and before Severus realized he'd lost her, she was gone. Long before she departed on that boat off to unknown parts, she was gone from him, beyond recall. Her physical absence was academic. 

Lost, and cut off, and alone. 

** * * ***

Alone. 

I was, completely, utterly alone. 

How long had it been since they'd put me in here? A few days. It felt like years. It felt like ages. 

It was like I was being taken apart, slowly and painfully, bit by bit. Inside, I screamed and cried and grasped at these pieces being pried from me, these well-loved memories, these scant happy memories... 

Please, don't take them from me. Please, let me keep them...they're all I have left... 

My mother's face, so perfect and white and strangely eerie. Shhh, Severus, she whispered, her hand rubbing my back in small circles. Everything will be fine... 

Gone. 

Dance with me, Severus, she said, laughing. 

_ (Blackbird, fly  
Into the light of the dark black night) _

Across the room my father spun Anda around and around in circles. She giggled. Her red pigtails swung around her head. 

_ (Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly)_

My mother took my hands in her own and raised my arms above my head. She was smiling...

Gone. 

Severus? 

_ (All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise)_

Gone. 

Severus, it's all right, I'm taking you out of here. 

Light came to me slowly, painstakingly, but when I could see again, I was no longer in Azkaban. I didn't recognize where I was, but then, I couldn't really remember too much. 

I did, however, know the man who sat near me, holding one of my hands. When I curled my fingers experimentally, Dumbledore looked up at me, surprised. 

It's good to have you back, Severus. 

Albus, I murmured, remembering in a short, sudden burst him telling me to call him that. We're both adults, Severus, he had told me. We'd been sitting in his office at the time. Just as quickly as the memory rose, it subsided back into insignificance. Funny how you take memories for granted... 

How did you get me out? I asked. 

I vouched for you, of course, he told me. You had no business being put in there in the first place. 

I closed my eyes. Drifted. Remembered the names they'd called me as they dragged me off to prison. One of them had spat on me. Your time has come, he told me. 

My time had come. 

And then something leapt up in me...I sat up so abruptly I must have scared Albus to death. VOLDEMORT IS DEAD, I said, absolutely stunned. 

He smiled. 

He's...he's...is he really? Please tell me it's true, Albus, please. 

He nodded. 

I was speechless for a moment. 

Then I started to cry. It was over. 

** * * ***

Anda wasn't there when Harry went to breakfast the next morning. 

Harry had taken it upon himself to teach Niamh how to play Wizard's Chess. She had admitted, that, despite being knowledgeable of any number of peculiar things, she didn't know anything about the game at all. After some investigation, they found an old set in the library and decided to bring it out to the porch, where Harry went over each piece and rule as they sat in the dappling, mid-morning sunshine. 

Niamh caught on and was busy winning by the time Ananda appeared, trotting up the path from the village with her sunglasses on, cigarette in her mouth, paper bag stuck under her arm. 

"Hi," Harry said, relieved. He'd been a little afraid that whatever words had passed between Snape and his sister had chased her off. 

"Hey, mates," she replied sitting down on the porch steps. "What are you - oh, my God." 

"What?" Niamh asked, blinking. 

Ananda took off her sunglasses and peered at the chess set. "Christ, I haven't seen that thing since... It was Severus's." 

Harry shot a look at the set. It had been very used, but covered in a thick layer of dust when they found it. 

"He used to beat the pants off me," Anda continued. She grinned and poked Niamh in the arm, nodding towards her row of captured men. "I see you take after your father..." 

A small, sly smile crept over Niamh's mouth. 

They cleared up the game and went inside, while Anda started to make some tea. Harry pointed to the paper bag. "What's in there?" 

"Oh, just some stuff I picked up from the shop in town." 

"You went into the village?" Niamh asked, her eyes wide. 

"Yeah." She left the stove and picked up the bag, beginning to unload it. "Cigarettes - yes, I know, bring on the cancer - Coke, a Muggle newspaper, etc. You know. Boring stuff." She grinned. 

Harry turned the newspaper towards him slightly to read the cover. It was a national Irish paper. Anda picked it up and leafed through it, pulling out the comics in the middle. "Morning reading. Very important." Harry snickered. 

Ten minutes later, Snape descended downstairs like bad weather. Unlike the day before, however, he said nothing, barely sparing them a glance as he headed directly to the stove to make himself a cup of tea from Anda's pot of water. Anda didn't look at him, but lit a cigarette and bit her lip. 

Harry was surprised when Snape sat down with his tea; he'd thought he would disappear back upstairs again. Still, he said nothing. It was very quiet for a few moments, except for the rustle of newspaper as Anda turned the page, and then Niamh broke the silence. 

"Harry's teaching me how to play chess." 

Snape looked at her. Then he looked at Harry. 

"I - I wouldn't say that. She's already better at it than I'll ever be." 

Snape smirked, just noticeably, and then turned and raised his eyebrow approvingly to Niamh. He pulled over one of the sections of the newspaper over to his side of the table and flipped it open. Niamh shot a grateful look at Harry. 

Harry's attention drifted outside. The Aunts were in the back garden. He had grown used to their eccentricities by now, and once their initial introductions, they didn't pay much notice to him. 

Across the table, Snape made a funny noise that made Harry jump and look over to him. He was staring at an article in the paper, his face terribly pale. 

"Severus - ?" Anda asked. 

Snape stood up. Harry got only a quick glimpse of his eyes, but they looked empty to him. He turned and left the room; Harry heard him climbing the stairs. 

Anda bent over the paper, scanning it; then abruptly she stopped and sucked in a breath through her teeth. Without a word, she followed Severus upstairs. 

Harry and Niamh shared a look and descended upon the paper. 

The article that dominated the page was accompanied by a large, color photograph of an old man. 

"Why isn't he moving?" Niamh asked. 

"This is a Muggle paper," Harry told her. "Muggles don't have movable photographs." 

The headline read: "NATION MOURNS GORDON WILSON: Politicians unite to pay tribute to man of peace." Niamh began to read the article softly aloud. 

"The country was in mourning today following the sudden death of Senator Gordon Wilson, the Enniskillen man who was catapulted into the nation's consciousness after the death of his daughter Marie in the horrific Remembrance Day Bombing. 

"Senator Wilson's humanity and Christianity, despite the heartbreak of losing his daughter in the terrorist carnage which killed 11 people on Poppy Day in 1987, marked him out as a unique spokesman for the new Ireland being forged in the aftermath of the peace process..." 

Niamh trailed off, looking away, her brow furrowed. Harry continued to skim the article. Most of it was about other politicians reacting to Wilson's death. "The Progressive Democrats leader, Ms. Mary Harney, said Senator Wilson's death was heartbreaking. 'From the bleak morning in 1987 when people heard his extraordinarily poignant account of the death of his daughter Marie as they both lay in the rubble of the Enniskillen Remembrance Day atrocity, Gordon Wilson has been both a living symbol of the tragedy in Northern Ireland and an inspirational example of how we must put the past behind us if we are to build a lasting peace.'," it concluded. 

"What is it?" he asked Niamh, who still had that peculiar, thoughtful expression on her face. 

"I don't know," she said. "But..." She frowned deeper. 

"But?" 

She looked down at the paper again, and laid a hand on the man's picture. "My...my mother was from Enniskillen." 

** * * ***

It wasn't really over, of course. 

First there was the whole story, which Albus told me in due time - the death of James and Lily Potter, and the curious matter of Voldemort's apparent destruction by their baby, Harry. It didn't make any sense. Nothing really made any sense anymore - and what few innocent ideas I had left to me about the apparent order of the world were finally stamped out once my trial began. 

It was difficult - the questions they had, the accusations they made, the images they put into my mind. The night after my first day of questioning I cried myself to sleep. It was the shock, really - after years of surviving those shark-infested waters, hardening myself to what I saw in order to get on and do what I had to do - to suddenly have it thrown in my face, graphically and violently. It hurt. It was painful. I didn't want to remember it. I didn't want to see it anymore. 

I got through it. Albus got me through it. And in the end, I was free, vouched for, safe. And completely adrift. 

What was there for me? 

I entertained the idea of going to Europe and looking for Ananda, whom I had lost touch with in the last year or so of Voldemort's reign. I had been too busy to keep up with her ever-changing addresses, and too miserable to read about how much fun she was having. 

I didn't go to Europe, though. I don't know why. Perhaps I was too scared. I didn't want a burst of new experience, to be surrounded by strange and different places and people. I didn't want to see how much Ananda had changed and grown. I had grown too, but I didn't feel more sophisticated or learned. I just felt old. 

In the end, I just went home. Back to Argat Island... that tiny dot in the Irish sea, where nothing ever seems to change. I went home to hide, pretend that the last few years of my life had never happened. 

I managed admirably. The Aunts were old and they didn't care much for practical things - like broken windows and sunken roofs. Most of the house was run-down, and in my first few months home I began to magically repair things. No one could ever conquer that old house - it would always look shabby and slightly odd - but at least there weren't flecks of plaster falling from the ceiling anymore, or mice running rampant in the cellar. 

The Aunts still on occasion did their old business which I had despised as a child, the selling of potions and charms to Muggles. They didn't need that much money, but when they did, that was usually how they got it. Now, however, I wasn't a curious, nervous thirteen year-old sneaking glimpses through a keyhole when I should have been in bed. I watched them openly as they worked on whatever they were being paid for. On the rare occasions they had an audience - though usually the Muggles didn't want to stick around to see their dirty work being performed, oddly enough - they would make a big show out of it, with puffs of smoke and strange noises. More than once in the middle of this silliness I broke out laughing, which, needless to say, ruined the effect, and annoyed Jessa and Birgitte to no end. After one of these times, when I was helping them clean up, Jessa said to me: You may laugh all you like, but I don't see you trying to get any kind of job, Severus Snape. (I could always tell when one of the Aunts were annoyed with Anda or me when they used our last name. They had looked down on our father, Muggle that he was, and our surname was a source of distaste to them.) 

Her comment stuck in my mind. I supposed I should get a job of some sort. That's what people did, didn't they? I didn't know what normal people did. I'd never been normal, I decided. Not really. 

I wanted to be normal. 

I eventually contented myself to pitching in with the Aunts's work. It disgusted me at first, just as it had when I was a child - these two-faced people who said things about us behind our back and then came pawing at our doorstep when they needed help. But after awhile, they only made me feel sad. After all, wasn't that what I had done? Scorned the world around me, the values that had been presented me at Hogwarts, and then gone running to Albus Dumbledore for help? It was human, I decided. We were alike, these silly, helpless Muggles who feared and hated but relied on us, to heal this one's heart and this other one's mind. 

I settled into this life, season bleeding into season, until late one spring night when I was twenty-three, there was a knock at our door - on our FRONT door, not the back door, where Muggle customers usually came to. 

I went to answer it. The caller was a woman - a very familiar woman. She had long brown hair and when she saw my face she smiled slightly, her eyes squinting up. 

Severus? she asked, her voice a ghost out of my past. 

It was Muireen. 

** * * ***

"Tell me everything you know about her," Harry said. 

They'd gone outside to talk. The day had started out sunny but in the western sky Harry could see a front of storm clouds battling towards them. The light was growing dim, despite the fact that it was only early afternoon, and a breeze, cool for late June, was stirring the leaves in the trees. 

"I don't know much of anything. Only that she and my father never married - the Aunts told me that - and that she died. I don't even know how old I was. I don't even know what her name was. I don't even know what she looked like!" She put her face in her hands. Harry clenched his fists and looked at the sky again, at the impending storm. 

"Doesn't your father ever talk about her? Haven't you ever asked him anything?" 

Niamh shook her head. "When I was younger I used to ask. He never said anything. Besides..." and then she sighed, looking sad. "He's never around, anyway. He's always away at school. I...I don't really know him." 

They were quiet for a few moments. Harry touched her arm. 

Niamh drew in a breath. "And the Aunts - well, I don't they liked her very much." She looked at him. "Your parents are both dead, right?" 

He nodded. 

"Well, I might as well be an orphan, too." She looked at him, smiling at his bemused expression. "I don't have a mother. I might as well not have a father, either." She laughed, eerily. "You look so shocked, Harry." 

"It's nothing," he said. "It's just - well, I've never heard you talk about him like this before." 

Niamh looked down her hands, face falling. "It's not that I don't respect him. Or that I - I hate him. But I don't know if I love him, either. I mean..." 

She broke away from him and lay down on the grass. "Damn him," she whispered vehemently, relishing the curse. "Damn him." 

** * * ***

She came to me that night asking for help. Her grandfather was sick, dying slowly. She asked me to come to him. 

I'm not a doctor, Muireen. I don't know if I can heal him. 

I don't want you to heal him, Severus. He's old; he's tired. His time has come. But he's in a lot of pain. Can you make it easier for him? 

That I could do, and after I had packed some supplies, I followed her down the path to the village, to her grandfather's cottage near the sea. 

The old man had pneumonia, complicated by weak lungs from a bout of tuberculosis he'd had when he was young, and simple old age. I stayed with them after I treated him, stayed through the whole night, until the very early morning when he peacefully passed. 

They had the funeral a few days later; I walked down to the tiny cemetery and watched the burial from a distance, hidden by the shade of a huge oak tree. Muireen's light brown hair looked almost golden in the sunlight. She wore a long black dress and dropped a red rose into the grave. 

She saw me as they were leaving; her eyes seemed to seek me out. The others left. She stayed. After awhile she walked over to me and took my arm. 

Take me home, she said. I need a drink. 

I took her to her grandfather's cottage and we sat, side by side, in the small, dusty sitting room. Muireen took off her high heels. I felt stiff and unsure. 

When are you going back? I asked finally. 

She rested her chin in her hand. I don't know, she said. I was thinking of...staying here. 

I blinked, surprised. 

The house was left to me, she explained. Granddad knew how I loved the island. And I don't really have much holding me back in Enniskillen. 

I swallowed, trying to get used to this information. For a few moments, no one said anything. A magpie chirped outside the window. 

Thank you, she whispered. 

Looking down, I whispered, It's no trouble. 

She put a hand on my cheek. You've grown up so. 

You look exactly the same, I told her. 

She laughed: I don't feel the same. 

I took her hand from my cheek and held it. For a moment there, it didn't feel like any time had passed between us at all. We'd had a short friendship, lifetimes ago; so many things had changed since then, but that didn't seem to matter. I felt like I knew her completely. Which was ridiculous; I barely knew her at all. But the inherent closeness between us was unmatched by anything I'd ever felt before - except when I was young, with my sister. And this was...different. 

She leaned her head against my shoulder. Would you want me to stay here, Severus? 

I paused. I couldn't seem to make my voice work. Finally, I managed a whisper. 

Yes. 

** * * ***

_to be continued..._


End file.
